


American Honey

by eratothemuse



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Safe For Work, age gap, did you expect anything less than a 7k fantasy of being domestic with steven grant rogers, i didn't proofread this so rip, sfw, steve being the loml, you are a country girl and you will like it!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22172572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: She rounded the corner, thundering into him in a mess of wild hair and a yellow sundress, hitting him harder than any swing that the god at his left could deliver and, just like that, he found he was that same scrawny teenager from Brooklyn again.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 162





	American Honey

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: [Courtesy of my ‘you just got handed the aux cord at the hoedown’ playlist and Lady Antebellum // American Honey] Y’all all I can think about is country boy Steve and this is the result of that absolute craving inside my soul for Steve Rogers to be happy and domestic. This is all complete unrealistic fantasy so just ride the wave, okay, and forgive any unrealistic parts, for my sake.

> ##  **_American Honey_ **
> 
> Gif/Photo Sources: [1](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/189880068541/bee-stim-kathyslimes) | [2](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/190014066931) | [3](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/190014042026/doe-face) | [4](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/190013956142/stonystonysto-neverforget) | [5](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pinterest.ru%2Fpin%2F398779741981883266%2F%3Famp_client_id%3DCLIENT_ID%28_%29%26mweb_unauth_id%3D%26simplified%3Dtrue&t=MDQ2NzBlMzcyM2VkMWMxOGRkYWNhYTY0MDlhMWJhYjA1OTgzYTU1NSxxVnM0Q0xNZg%3D%3D&b=t%3AuNoi0AujsProexVbD5JsWA&p=https%3A%2F%2Fthranduilsperkybutt.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F190139219143%2Famerican-honey-gifphoto-sources-1-2-3&m=0) | [6](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ffactrepublic.com%2F35-interesting-avengers-endgame-facts-thatll-blow-your-mind%2F2%2F&t=MTZhM2I4NGY1YzFlNzI0MjMwMjMxNjIwODZjNDJmZGE1YTJlZTc0YyxxVnM0Q0xNZg%3D%3D&b=t%3AuNoi0AujsProexVbD5JsWA&p=https%3A%2F%2Fthranduilsperkybutt.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F190139219143%2Famerican-honey-gifphoto-sources-1-2-3&m=0) | [7](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fnl.pinterest.com%2Fpin%2F33284484731320488%2F%3Flp%3Dtrue&t=OGQ2MDY3NzA3YzE1ZGI3NDJkZjM5ZWQ0YWNmODY0MTllNWJmZDg4ZSxxVnM0Q0xNZg%3D%3D&b=t%3AuNoi0AujsProexVbD5JsWA&p=https%3A%2F%2Fthranduilsperkybutt.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F190139219143%2Famerican-honey-gifphoto-sources-1-2-3&m=0)

* * *

The jet flew right over your head, the force of it nearly sending your hat flying, had you not grabbed it and firmly kept it along the crown of your scalp. The summer breeze whipped, sending the weeds brushing against the skin of your calves. Laughter bubbles from your throat as the jet descends just beyond the nearby trees, near the farmhouse you had called home all your life. **  
**

He was home.

Bare feet take off running, wildflowers left forgotten in the grass where you had picked them. It takes a moment for the hound at your side to notice your hasty abandonment, but the one-eyed retriever is hopping to his feet as if he hadn’t been enjoying his lounging at your side a moment before, barking after you.

“Lucky, come on, boy—” you laugh, smacking your thigh through the yellow cotton of your sundress, urging the dog to follow at your side, “he’s home!”

You’ve broken a light sweat by the time your feet thump against the wooden front porch, thanks to the heat of the midday sun. The woven bag on your shoulder and the hat in your hand are both abandoned along the top porch step in your haste.The jet sits quiet in the field, but warm with its recent arrival, and you can hear voices through the screen door as you reach to open it.

“— should be a good place to lay low, Fury made sure this place was off the books. You guys can go upstairs and get changed,” you catch the familiar tone, distant and soft like the squeak of the door, making your excitement swell as you thunder around the corner with Lucky at your heels.

You only manage to see a flash of red, white, and blue before you’re barreling right on into a firm chest, wind knocked out of you as you stumble back, only to feel the catch of large hands along your bare arms, holding you steady. He didn’t move an inch, but seemed just as winded and wide-eyed as you, when you finally do take a good look up at him.

“Y-You okay, there, ma’am?” Steve Rogers asks you, a blossoming shade of pink dusting his otherwise pale cheeks, and the first thing you can manage to think is how his eyes are so much bluer in person— how the news on TV doesn’t do him a lick of justice.

“I’m sorry; I really didn’t see you there,” it’s shaky, as you catch yourself and he lets you go to finally get a good look at the scene occurring in your living room. The Avengers stood there, right out of one of your dad’s stories about them, mostly dressed in uniform, save for Tony Stark and Bruce Banner who opted for street clothes.

“What’s the rush?” your aunt teases, shooting you a wave as your attention grazes upon her, but she isn’t the Avenger you were searching for.

“Don’t run in the house,” your mom reminds, but her smile is kind— in so much better a mood with the arm of your father around her shoulders. With the swell of her pregnancy came her mood swings, but with his arrival home would dawn a good mood that couldn’t be soured for weeks to come. It’s how it always was.

“Dad!” you squeal in excitement, lighting up like the sun with it, and suddenly the Captain is left forgotten as you maneuver between him and the god of Thunder to jump into Clint’s arms.

He squeezes you tight, and his chuckles bury in the side of your hair, “Was wondering where you’d gotten off to, honeybee.”

“That girl,” Natasha laughs, easily remembering your affinity for the outdoors since she last came to visit, “always out in the field somewhere.”

“You’ve got kids coming out of the woodwork, Barton,” comes the snarky tone of Tony Stark, as he smirks at your siblings, who are eagerly badgering Natasha within an inch of her life, but she hardly seems to mind with Lila on her hip and Cooper taking hold of her hand to drag her further into the house. She belonged here as much as any of you, family by more than just a fragile bond of blood.

Your mother goes to Tony and Bruce, offering to show them to their temporary rooms, as Clint’s arm lingers around your shoulders, leaning on you just slightly, and you can tell he’s favoring one side regardless of how hard he tries to keep it from you. Even with the dry humor in Tony’s voice, you’re older than your siblings, and far past old enough to catch the dark mood that simmers in Thor as he turns and heads for the front door, and the serious set to Steve’s jaw as he follows after him.

You look to your father, “What’s happened?”

“Ah, sweetie,” he sighs, and you notice the worn look in his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to his shoulders. Clint avoids your question for now, “We’ve really put our foot in it, this time.”

“Dad—” you’re about to pry, but he shakes his head.

“Let me get out of this suit first, and I’ll tell you all about it,” it’s a promise, and you accept it when his lips sweetly brush your forehead before he lets you go to follow your mother up the steps. It would have to do, for now.

Steve catches your eye from the porch, Thor seemingly gone, as you walk into the foyer to watch your Dad go up to your parents’ room. The captain’s hands were settled on his hips, shield strapped to his back, and he looked like the picture of hope the news had once framed him as, in all ways but one.

You have no doubt that you wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on him, had he not been looking out into the field with the troubled set to his features, but he jumps subtly when you speak, “Hey, you should go get changed, too, Captain.”

He makes a confused sound, mouth agape for a moment as he looks at you like you had snapped him out of a haunting daydream, before he seemingly comes to his senses enough to ask, “What?”

“For dinner?” you chuckle, amused by his awkwardness, and his hands relax from their place at his hips to fall at his sides when Lucky runs out into the field past him. “Unless, you’d rather stay in your star-spangled suit to eat.” You nod up the stairs, tease biting at your grin, “Come on, there’s plenty enough guest rooms for you, too, Mister Rogers.”

You’re already halfway up the stairs before he comes back into the house, boots sounding against the hardwood as he follows after you.

“ _Steve_ ,” he says, and you turn on the top step to raise a brow at him as he closes the distance.

“Huh?”

The red in his cheeks has come back, but you chalk it up to the summer heat, “Everyone just calls me Steve.”

“Alright, Steve,” there’s that smile again, flashed before you turn to continue down the hallway and leaving him to follow, “your room’s this way.”

You don’t see the way he watches you when you turn away after having shown him the guest room, or hear the stutter in his voice when he thanks you. He hopes you don’t realize the way you’ve flustered him, and waits until you aren’t there to see the way he tries to shake it off of him after you’re gone. This feeling, though, settles deep, and isn’t so easily shaken. It’s juvenile and childish, and Steve tells himself he’s being silly— that it’s the witch messing with his head. He hasn’t felt like it since before the serum, and he doesn’t quite know if he likes it.

Your room is just down the hall from his, and you have enough time before the sunset to brush through your hair and slip on your sandals, before coming back downstairs, to be met with a lighter mood than that of earlier in the day. Clint was absolutely demolishing Tony and Natasha at darts, and you can already smell the beginnings of dinner, hot on the stove by your mom’s hand. The kids were playing outside, while Bruce seemed to be content in reading your worn copy of Les Miserables where he, for the first time today, relaxed against the couch. Stepping up to the screen door, you open it with a squeak to grab your hat and bag from the porch to take them inside, scanning the lawn to find your siblings squealing on the tire swing while Tony walked towards the barn..

That’s when you see him, out past the dirt road splitting through the property and near the old broken-down ford that’s only purpose now was as a playhouse for the children. Steve swung the axe like he was raised on it, chopping wood with an ease most men couldn’t boast. It was silly, you note in the back of your mind, how the sight slowed you down a little bit. You certainly weren’t the first girl to find Captain America attractive, and you weren’t bound to be the last.

Still, he made your mouth run dry, and the girlish heart in your chest beat faster. With an idea in your head, you turned back to the house, formulating a plan for your excuse to talk to him.

Steve had seen you, standing there on the porch. Watched in his peripheral as you plucked your things from the stoop and headed on back inside, screen door creaking in your wake. Steve huffs at himself, slicing through the next stump with an even harder swing. He came out here to clear his head, and you were only helping to make him dizzy. He needed to get back on that jet and take the fight to Ultron, before things got even hazier in the little piece of paradise that Clint had cut out for himself here.

Steve is so caught up in the rhythmic pattern of chopping wood and the remembrance of the vision he had seen, that he doesn’t notice your second approach, up until you’re barely a yard away, and calling to him with a sweet lilt to your voice and a joke on your tongue.

The sun sets behind you, and he nearly misses the stump mid-swing, “Hey, there, Mister America, why don’t you take a break and cool off with this American girl?” He wills himself to say anything, some kind of polite protest, but once again, you’ve got him tongue-tied, with the way the late summer sunset catches colors on your skin. The axe sits, head to the dirt as he leans it against the stack of wood he had made, as you come close enough to hold out the ice-cold glass in your hand, “Some sweet tea’ll cool you off some. Promise, it’s good.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he thinks he sounds ridiculous, but he can’t stop saying it, despite the fact that he has a good ten years on you. His only solace comes in the way you smile at him, which tells him you aren’t bothered in the least.

“Now, if I’m gonna’ be callin’ you Steve, you’ve gotta catch me by my name, too,” it’s playful, and your teasing only stokes the burning in his cheeks. He gulps down some of his tea, fresh and sweet in a way that only came from a homemade batch, while you sip at your own. It doesn’t cool him down nearly as much as he hoped it would, not under the heat of your gaze.

He was starting to love this farm.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs your name for the first time, and it tastes just right on his tongue. A smile lights up your face when he says it, and when the wind whips at your dress, sending pink and orange hues dancing along your skin, he lets himself think that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, right about now. Steve knows he’s in trouble right then and there. There was no denying, he felt like that same scrawny boy who could barely talk to a girl back in the ‘40s, with the way you looked at him, ever since you hit him right in the chest.

Steve had known it even then, and it had terrified him, but not the terror, or the knowledge that he should focus on the problems he had at hand, could keep him from finding you after dinner, out on the front porch .

Crickets chirping in the dead of the night, he interrupts them to ask, “Mind if I join you?”

You blinked up at him for a moment, still reeling from the reality of what had been discussed at dinner. Ultron, all of it, raised your worry for not only your father, but all of humanity. You were so sheltered here, on the farm, and the quaint adjoining town— you had never seen too much of a big city. This was your home, but if Ultron succeeded, the havok that this part of the country seemed to ignore would only come crashing down upon all of you. There was no hiding from the end of the world, after all. You scoot over a little bit, just enough to secure Steve a spot beside you, and try your best to hide the haunted look that had been in your own eyes.

He sees it. He knows it too well to miss it and, if it doesn’t kill him to see it in your eyes.

“Have a seat,” the porch swing was plenty enough room for two people, but that didn’t mean that you wouldn’t be left sitting up against him when you drew your legs up, and he pushed the swing with his own to rock absentmindedly.

“Thanks,” Steve hums, letting the crickets’ song fill the silence for a moment before he breaks it, “We’re going to stop Ultron, you know. You don’t need to worry.” The way you watch him, he knows you don’t believe him any more than he himself does, but the small quirk to your lips he brings is grateful at his trying.Talking to him came as easy as anything else, and you found yourselves lost to it. Almost to the point that, for at least a moment, Steve could forget the bigger troubles looming on the horizon, as the two of you talked deep into the night.

For the next two days, as the Avengers slowly recuperated and figured out a plan to confront the robotic villain, each moment not spent working was spent with you and Steve, practically attached at the hip. Long conversations in the middle of the fields, making him chase you into the creek just beyond the large tree and out of sight of the barn, and strawberry lemonade had him losing track of the time, and left the two of you spiralling, falling fast as the summer nights suddenly seemed all too short when it came time to say goodnight.

He was leaving in the morning, with the rest of them, and you were shocked at yourself. Utterly surprised to find that, rather than just your father and Natasha, you were yearning for Steve to stay.

But you swallow it down, bounding over to where he was working on the decrepit tractor that Tony had managed to get into the front yard from where it had been holed up in the barn. You were determined to make this last day mean something. Be a good send-off, for the fight that was to come.

You kick Steve’s boot, drawing his attention from under the tractor and earning a smile that could easily set your stomach churning with the butterflies he erupted within you, “Hey, Stevie.”

“Hi, doll,” he sits up, as you lean on the fat back tire of the tractor, taking the rag you offer for him to wipe the grease from his hands onto.

“So, the market’s open today, and we’re runnin’ low on some things, but Mama doesn’t want me goin’ into town alone, with this Ultron stuff goin’ on,” you begin, unable to keep from teasing, “so I figure, who better to keep me company than you? If ya’ ain’t busy right now, that is.”

Steve stands to his feet, draping the grease rag along the seat of the tractor, before rubbing the back of his neck, “A market, huh?”

“Yeah, you know, fresh produce, stuff like that,” licking your thumb, you reach out, catching him by the jaw to wipe away the grease that lingered there, and not caring one bit for the stain it leaves on your worn jeans as you wipe it there. And he’s blushing again, which you’ve come to realize he did a lot when it came to you, so you decide to test your luck, and take a step closer, “So, what do you say? Ya’ busy?”

“W-Well,” he stammers, looking to the tractor, “Tony wanted to get this done before we left—”

“Aw, okay,” you pout, sighing a bit more dramatically than was necessary, “I guess, I could always just take—”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” he interrupts you quickly, and your bouncing on your heels with the excitement of it, just like that.

“You’ll come? Great! I’ll go bring around my truck and we can get out of here,” spinning on your heel, you turn to make your way back around the house, but glance back at him to laugh, “You’re gonna’ love it, Steve!” Steve chuckles, shaking his head as he glances down to his boots, only to look back up as he watches you go to bring the truck around.

Up on the second floor of the house, Laura watches from her bedroom window as she folds the laundry. The truck hums, just as loud as when Clint had first bought it off that used car lot in town. It had been her idea, getting an older model, because she wanted to keep her kids knowing the value in things, and there was no sense in giving a sixteen-year-old a beemer in the country, anyways.

Steve doesn’t have to climb up into it, like Laura has watched you do so often. She sees the grin flash along your face, as you look at the man beside you, and the one that Steve tries to subdue, as he does the same. You crank up the music, windows rolled down, before shifting gears and heading off down the dirt road leading off the property, rocks and gravel flying in your escape.

You’ve almost made it out of sight when Laura hears steps on the stairs, and then her name called by Clint, “Honey, did you tell our daughter that she could go into town?”

“Yeah,” she calls back, loud only until Clint enters the bedroom, him squinting out the window from behind her to catch the impossibly distant sight of the truck disappearing down the road, “only as long as she found someone to go with her.”

“Someone to go with her,” he huffs, frown setting on his face, “Well, she’s going to be in trouble when she gets back; leaving like that and disobeying you isn’t like her—”

“She didn’t disobey. She did as she was told,” Laura hums contentedly, trying her best not to crack a smile at the way Clint gapes at her, not getting what she was laying down.

“What? Who’d she take? Everyone’s working, getting ready to leave tomorrow—”

“Why, she took Steve, of course,” she looks up from her completed folding of her shirts, turning to tuck them into the drawer, but Clint follows her.

“What? Why would Steve—”

“Clint,” she looks up at her oblivious husband, easy smile along her face, and reaches to cup his jaw to give him a soft pat there, “don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how sweet on her he is.”

He looks like she had just told him the earth was flat, or the world didn’t revolve around the sun. Gapes at her like she had said something so easily contradicted, it was completely and inherently unbelievable. Clint lets out a couple of half-words, sounds bubbled along his scoffs as he processes what she was saying, before he frowns a little deeper, and she teases that he’ll wrinkle if he keeps up like that.

“ _Since_ _when_ is Cap sweet on her?”

Laura giggles, finding him adorable, and shuts the dresser drawer to turn and wrap her arms around his neck, unable to keep from pecking his lips, “Oh, I think since the moment he saw her.” Her giggles only grow at his perplexed look, “He looked at her like you first looked at me, when she bumped into him. Knew right then and there that our girl had him smitten, without even trying to.” She grabs up the laundry basket to head back down the stairs with it, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I told her to be back before dark with the groceries.”

“That…” Clint begins, soft, before he lifts his tone to catch her ears as she walks down the halway, “That doesn’t make me feel any better, Laura!”

The farmer’s market was a good forty minutes down the road, right on the edge of town, and on a Sunday like today, it was packed. Each seller was eager to get their produce off their stalls so they didn’t have to take it home with them. The sales were on, and between morning and evening service, this was the local hangout.

The ball cap you’d fished from your backseat fit Steve like a glove, fishhook spiked through the brim of it, and effectively hiding his sandy blonde hair from view. Right now, in his jeans and t-shirt, with a cap on, he looked a whole lot less like Captain America, and a whole lot more like just some good ol’ country boy.

You don’t think twice about your hand finding his in the crowd, said loudly enough by the grin you shoot his way as you urge him towards the fruit stalls, “Come on, Mister Lewis has the best strawberries this side of the Mississippi!”

Steve’s still trying to recover from the warmth of your small hand gripping his, but he manages to hide it behind the brim of his hat, “Ah, is that right?”

“Yeah, you’ve gotta’ try some before you go,” giving his hand a squeeze, you let him go when you reach the stall, leaning over it to grab the attention of the middle-aged man standing on the other end with a wave. Steve flexes his fingers at his side, trying to ignore the urge to reach out and take your hand back into his own, as you make your purchases of fruit, and place them into the fabric bag you had brought along.

He takes to looking around, noticing the surroundings, and the types of people walking around the market. They looked like a bunch of normal, everyday people. Good people, smiling with a please, thank you, and have a blessed day, sugar, attitude. It was something you just didn’t see in a city like New York.

He’s snapped from his surveillance by the flash of red in his face, a strawberry, and his eyes follow the arm to catch you, excitedly offering him the fruit, “Here, open up, Stevie.”

Steve was pretty sure he turned just as red as the strawberry at that, but he obeys you before he thinks twice about it, opening his mouth for you to slip the ripe fruit between his lips, teeth sinking into it and taking it for his own. You pull back the stem, raising a brow while he burns with embarrassment, flavors of a perfect strawberry exploding on his tongue. You were right about them being the best this side of the Mississippi, even if he didn’t quite know what the ones on the other side tasted like.

“Good, right?” you grin, tossing the top of it into a nearby garbage can, as Steve’s thumb comes up to draw the juice that slipped down his chin back up to his lips.

He nods around his mouthful, “Mhm.” Swallowing, he tags along after you as you walk towards the next stall, a chuckle at his lips, “You’re right, they’re pretty darn good.”

“If you like those, you’ll love these,” pointing to a couple of unlabeled jars in the corner of the market.

Bounding up to the stall, an elderly woman smiles kindly at you, “Oh, honeybee, you haven’t been at the market in a little while! Glad you could come by today, sugar.”

You reach across the table, giving her a quick hug, “You know I can’t stay away from you for too long, Missus Jefferson! Not when you make honey this good!”

She laughs, swatting gently at your hands, before looking up at your tall companion, “Well, don’t leave me wonderin’, who’s this boy you got with ya’? He your new man?”

“Oh,” you look just as embarrassed as Steve did, as you wave her off, “no, ma’am. This is just a friend of mine, Steve. He’s in from out of town, and I couldn’t let him leave without some of your famous American honey. I’d like to get two jars, please.”

“Don’t flatter me so much, darlin’, you’ll make me miss ya’ more when you go home to your Mama,” she jokes, before fishing two jars from the table to offer them to you, as you hand her the money for them. “Now, you make sure that city boy of yours has a good home-down biscuit with it, you hear?” She grins up at Steve, with all the brazen teasing that her old age will allow, “Ain’t nothin’ go as good with my honey as a homemade biscuit, you know, ‘cept maybe a sweet girl like her.”

“Missus Johnson!” you gasp, burning with embarrassment as she cackles in front of the two of you, but you shoot back your own teasing, “Don’t make me tell Tommy he needs to come get you!”

“That son of mine wouldn’t know a good joke if it sat right on him, sugar! Besides, what’s my old age for if not for teasing the young’uns?”

“You have a good Sunday, and try not to get too hot,” you remind, hastily tugging Steve along with you.

He manages to bite past his raging flush to politely nod his head at her, “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

She waves after the two of you, before going to sit back down in her lawn chair, “You, too, sugar! Come back, now, you hear?”

When you’re out of earshot, you look up at Steve apologetically, “Sorry, Miss Johnson is a pistol, but she’s really a nice lady.”

Steve laughs a little, “It’s okay. She seems like she’s fun.”

“Oh, here!” you offer him a jar, as he raises a brow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he begins, and you shake your head, shoving it gently into his chest.

“Now, Steve Rogers, I’m not lettin’ you leave town without taking something to remember me by, and this is my favorite honey in the whole world,” you pout up at him, and watch as his fragile reluctance cracks.

“Thank you,” he smiles, taking the jar and getting a good look at it. It really did look good, but his bright blues glance back to find your gaze, as you approach the truck, “You know, I don’t need something to remember you by.” You stop, boots on the gravel, and raise a questioning brow at him, as he adjusts the hat on his head and clears his throat, “I mean, you’re pretty memorable, all by yourself.”

You hesitate, words caught in your throat as your heart stammers in your chest with the way he glances towards you, and you let yourself think that maybe, just maybe, those were unsaid feelings in his eyes.

Instead of reading deeper, you allow a small quirk of your lips to grace your features, and say, “Thank you.” He nods, making his way towards the driver’s door to open it for you, and you climb up into your truck, hesitating on the running board to catch him, closer and more breathless with his proximity, “You know, Steve?”

He swallows, and you catch the way his fingers tighten on the door’s handle, just a little bit, when he asks, “Yeah, doll?”

Leaning forward, you let your lips brush against the warmth of his cheek, before murmuring softly, “I think you’re pretty memorable, yourself,” and settling into the driver’s seat. He watches you, for a good ten seconds, wide-eyed and blushing, looking like he wanted to lean in and take more than just the peck you’d left on his cheek.

Instead, he simply parrots your soft, “Thank you,” and walks around the front of the truck to get into the passenger side, leaving you to crank the music back up, while the pounding in your chest threatens to send you into a heart attack.

Somewhere, on your way home, between mile marker sixty-three and sixty-seven, your hand winds up in his own, but it slips away when you turn onto the dirt road leading up to your farmhouse. Setting the truck into park, you glance towards him, and find he’s doing the same. For something so innocent, the two of you look just as if you had done something far less, with how he was blushing and you were avoiding his eye. The sun dips over the horizon, marking your arrival home, just in the nick of time, and shading the two of you in the beginnings of the soft night.

Right then, you almost want to tell him not to leave tomorrow, even though you know it’s selfish.

Right then, he almost wants you to tell him to stay, even though he knows he can’t.

Instead, you sigh, “I had a lot of fun today, Steve.”

He nods, “I did, too, doll.”

Steve knows it’s just going to make it harder tomorrow, but as you reach to unbuckle your seat belt, he leans over the console, freezing you with a hand at your jaw, as he pulls your lips to his. Kissing you, he’s soft and slow, heat radiating from his cheeks to your own as his hand guides you to kiss him back, as if you needed the encouragement at all. You don’t know if you kiss him for ten seconds or ten minutes, but what you do know, is that when he leans back, breaking it, you only want to pull him back to kiss you again.

Steve’s forehead rests against your own, as he lets out a shuddering breath, more to himself than you, “What am I doing?”

When his eyes flutter open, they search yours for the answer, all conflict and uncertainty, yet he doesn’t let you go, so you give him one, “Kissing me again, before they come out here lookin’ for us, hopefully.”

And Steve sighs against your lips, his other hand coming up to join the first on the opposite side of your face, brushing your hair back, before he does.

You didn’t care if tomorrow he was leaving, or if it meant you’d never see him again. Right now, in the chirping of the night, he was yours, up until the porch light comes on. You were going to sear every second, minute, breath, _taste_ in your brain, if this really was all it was meant to be. If this is as far as it was meant to go.

Tomorrow, when he was gone, you could go back to being the same farm girl you were before he came into your life. Right now, though, you were _his_ girl, and the way he claims your every kiss only further sears his brand against you, burning the memories into you forever.

You break away from each other at the sound of Lucky barking, and the screen door squeaking, breathing hard and trying to collect yourselves as the sound of your dad shouting from the porch draws you from this small fantasy between you.

Muffled through the shut doors of your truck, you still hear him, _“Are you two ever coming in the house? Dinner’s on the table getting cold!”_

Steve chuckles against your lips, and you’re grateful for the darkness shielding you from your father’s prying eyes, before he goes back into the house and Steve leans back to his side of the car, “We better go in, before Clint gets that shotgun over your door.”

“That’s mom’s shotgun, Dad would get his bow,” you roll your eyes, but as he reaches for the handle to the door, you lean over the console to place one last, quick kiss against his startled lips, giggles passing your own before you beat him to jumping out of the truck, daring him with the same taunting words you had used when he had chased you into the creek yesterday, “Race you, Rogers.”

You’re barely hit the first step when strong arms grab you around the waist, tugging you back squealing into his chest, as he laughs, “Got ya’.”

“That’s cheating!” you complain, but the grin biting at your lips as he hoists you up the porch steps is hardly a complaint.

“So is a head start,” Steve shoots back, setting you down on your feet and handing you the bag of groceries. Leaning closer, he catches you under the porch light, right before you can reach for the screen door, voice low to keep those inside from overhearing, “And so is kissing me for a distraction, doll.”

“You’re a super-soldier,” you defend, “I’ve gotta’ use every weapon in my arsenal!”

“Is that right?” he raises a brow.

“Sure is.”

He hesitates, hand on the door handle, before he finally turns it and waves for you to go on before him, “Get on in there before I wind up having to kiss you again.”

You do as he says, feeling the shiver of heat that warms you from head to toe, and you barely manage to bite back your wide grin before you reach the dining room, offering a wave of the bag of groceries in your hand as you breathlessly explain, “Sorry we’re late, got the groceries, though!”

The groceries, you deposit into the kitchen’s refrigerator, stealing another kiss as Steve fishes a beer from it. You sit across from each other at dinner, picking along your plate while the conversation steers towards tomorrow and their plan to deal with Ultron. When you dare to brush your sock-clad foot against his calf, you grin like a fool into your mashed potatoes when he shoots you a shocked look, just before pressing back into your touch. Not ten minutes after you retire to your room, you find him knocking on your door, and you pull him into a good-night kiss that lingers longer than it should in your doorway— up until the hallway bathroom door opens and he jumps nearly a foot away from you as Lila walks by and back to her room, oblivious to the two of you or the guilty looks upon your faces.

Fingers gripping your door, and heart thundering in your chest, you murmur, “Night, Stevie.”

He leans against the door frame, keeping himself from breaking it under his grip, and forces himself to reply, “Goodnight, doll.”

Steve almost wakes you, at five in the morning, right when the Quinjet is about to take off, but he thinks better of it, leaning against your door frame just like he had the night before. Goodnight was better than goodbye.

But it’s almost worse to wake up and find the house empty, running down the stairs to find your mother cooking breakfast, with a look of pity on her face as she catches your watery eyes, “Oh, honeybee. They’re already gone. Clint didn’t wanna’ wake you, but didn’t Steve go up to say goodbye, this morning?”

“No,” you choke, and it hurts more than you thought it would. Bacon sizzling on the stove, she abandons it for a moment to round the counter and take you into her embrace. You hold onto her, crying softly into the crook of her shoulder, as she soothes you like she had all your life.

“Shh, honeybee,” she sighs, “it’s alright. They’ll be alright.” Leaning back, Laura wipes your eyes lovingly, before waddling back to the stove, “Come on, get you some breakfast, and you’ll feel better.”

“I’m not too hungry right now, Mama,” you sniffle, and she gives you an understanding look, before you walk back up to your room. Bare feet crunch on something as you go to pass the threshold into your room and, looking down, you find a slip of paper with your name on it.

Picking it up, you unfold it, finding a letter that was short and smelled like him. His penmanship is a mixture of capitals and breezy handwriting, beautiful in that unique way that could only come from the ‘40s, and leaves you aching all the more for his absence as you read your name scrawled along the page.

_Doll,_

_I know I’m a coward for leaving without saying goodbye, but I couldn’t leave you at all if I’d have to say those words. Goodnight is so much more hopeful, isn’t it? Next time, I can tell you good morning, and it will be like we weren’t apart for long at all. Wait a couple weeks for me, and I’ll come back for you._

_Keeping the honey to remember you by close,_

_\- Steve_

“You’d better, Steve Rogers,” you breathe through your tears, holding the letter close to your chest as you lay back on your bed and pray that they’ll stay safe through this fight.

A week passes, before your mom gets a call from your dad to update her. You had seen Sokovia on the news, but Clint and the rest of them had been wrapped up in one hell of a debriefing, apparently, and weren’t allowed to make any outward calls during it. Not to mention, one of the enhanced who had switched sides was lost in the fight, and the aftermath of it all required its own clean up crew that was nowhere near finished after the rubble had settled.

It takes a whole other week before Clint can even come home for a weekend, kissing you on the forehead and dumping his duffel by the door as he wraps Laura into a hug before doing the same to Cooper and Lila.

“Dad,” you begin, hesitant, but desperate to hear an update, “how’s Steve?”

He glances to Laura, before back to you, “He’s still helping with the refugees and the cleanup.” Moving a little closer, he tests the waters with, “Honeybee, just what’s going on with you and Cap?”

You look out the screen door, towards where Lucky was running in the fields, “Nothing, he’s just…” You sigh, “I just like him, is all.”

He looks like he wants to press further, but Laura takes him by the arm, “Okay, you need to shower up before dinner.”

Clint shoots her a smile, “Am I that bad off?”

“No, but you look like you could use a relaxing shower,” she counters, and he kisses her cheek.

“You always know just what I need, honey.”

With a sigh, you watch a bit longer, before opening the door and whistling to Lucky to get him to come back in the house for the night.

Another week passes, with no word from Steve and your dad having to go back to the Avengers, you begin to think that, maybe, it wasn’t as real as you though it to be. Sunday rolls around again, and your mom piles the kids into the truck, looking back to you once she gets Lila buckled in.

“Are you sure, sweetie?” Laura looks genuinely concerned. “You love the market.”

“Yeah, I’m just not feeling too good today.”

“You haven’t been feeling too good since Steve left,” she counters, and you wince at her hitting the nail on the head like she always did. She reaches, pulling you into a hug, as her advice wafts over your shoulder, “Honeybee, you gotta’ live your life when he’s gone, or you won’t have one.” Leaning back, she squeezes your shoulders comfortingly, “Take it from someone who knows.”

“Okay,” you nod, knowing she was right. You couldn’t mope around forever, just because Steve had forgotten about you. When she gets in the truck and starts it up, you tap on the passenger door, calling through the window towards Cooper and Lila, “You two be good for Mama, okay?”

“I’m always good!” Lila chirps with an innocent smile.

“That’s not true!” Cooper scoffs, earning a stuck-out tongue from Lila.

“You be safe, too,” Laura reminds, blowing a kiss, and like that she’s pulling off and down the dirt road.

“Come on, Lucky, let’s go watch Netflix,” you pat your thigh, yellow sundress waving with the force of it, as Lucky bounds after you and into the house.

You’re almost halfway through an episode of your favorite show when you hear it in the distance. A low rumbling, puttering, getting louder and closer with each passing second. Jumping from your bed, your fingertips brush against the curtains, pulling them back for you to peer out the windows and catch sight of the motorcycle on the road, heading towards the house. Squinting, you try to make out the driver, feeling your heart almost stop when you think you recognize who it is.

Lucky barks, running down the stairs, before you can even think to.

This time, you’re following him, bare feet thumping against the stairs as you hurry down them, hearing the gravel throw as the bike comes to a stop on the front lawn. You unlock the front door, throwing it open to look out the screen door at your visitor.

He’s disembarking the bike, jeans and a brown leather jacket hugging his shoulders as he tugs his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose, squinting at you through the sunlight.

The screen door creaks as you push it open, bursting through the doorway and down the porch steps to fall into his familiar arms. He hoists you, holding you close, as your arms wrap around his neck and his chuckle sounds breathless near your ear with the force of you running into him.

“You’re late, Stevie,” you accuse, glaring into bright blue eyes before pressing your lips to his. You missed him more than you could ever admit, but the way he holds you to him says just the same as he presses his feverish lips to kiss you back.

“I know,” he murmurs against your lips, as Lucky barks at your feet, kissing you hard once more before he sits you down on your feet, forehead pressed to yours, “but I’m home now, doll.”


End file.
